


Flavors of Venom

by TheSpaceCoyote



Category: Borderlands (Video Games)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Club Owner Jack, M/M, Minimal Horror Elements, Seduction, Sexual Tension, Supernatural Creature Jack, Supernatural Elements, Urban Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-24
Updated: 2018-03-24
Packaged: 2019-04-07 05:07:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14073522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSpaceCoyote/pseuds/TheSpaceCoyote
Summary: Rhys notices a new club opening a couple blocks from his apartment and decides to give it a shot, only for the club's owner to start noticinghim.Part of the Borderlands Reverse Big Bang!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first of my Reverse Big Bang Fics! This is based off of a piece by [RoryArtDot](http://roryartdot.tumblr.com) who did some amazing work! I hope you guys like this, it's a little off the beaten path but I had fun writing it!

Rhys first noticed the new club as he was walking towards his favorite restaurant, thoughts far more focused on the gnawing hunger in his stomach and the waiting takeout order than his surroundings. He might’ve just walked right by it if not for the eye-catching outer facade of sleek, ornate black and gold that made it stand out amongst the rest of the fairly minimalist smoothie bars and boutiques.

Rhys stopped in his tracks at the crosswalk, clinging close to the street sign so he’d keep out of the way of the evening crowds of people bustling their way down the sidewalk. Across the street, the faint sound of bass pulsed from the club’s entrance, though it’s doors remained closed. In the dying light of the setting sun the marquee blazed, neon-yellow letters advertising the name _Hyperion_ above a list of acts and DJs Rhys hadn’t even heard of.

He hesitated for a moment between crossing the street or heading on his way, and had even pressed the button for the crosswalk when his pocket buzzed in reminder that his food was ready, and ultimately hunger far beat out curiosity. He continued back down the sidewalk, though kept turning his head to catch the rapidly disappearing front of the club out of his periphery, until he rounded the corner on the next block and it fell from his vision.

He’d forgotten about it almost entirely, especially when he ended up taking an alternate route home, the smell of dinner wafting from the heavy plastic bag in his hand already distracting him.

He didn’t think about it again until nearly a week later, when he opens the door to his apartment to find a glossy little flyer fluttering down from where it’d been tucked into the doorjamb. He picked it up out of mindless curiosity to see the same name from before—Hyperion—emblazoned in the same bright yellow font he’d seen adorning the club’s exterior. This time it’s crowned with a logo, what looks like a stylized bee spread eagle with its wings reaching out from the H to the N. Instead of antenna, strange, spore-like protrusions wound upwards from its head. Kind of weird and morbid for a club where one was supposed to get drunk and have fun, but at least it looked cool.

Beneath the header sat a promotion for the club’s grand opening, which explained how Rhys had never heard of nor noticed it before last week. The free cover charge for the upcoming weekend sounded enticing, but Rhys had never really been the club-going type, preferring to hunker down at home on his nights off with a plateful of takeout pizza and the determination to beat Vaughn at his own favorite video game.

Still, he tucked the ad into his laptop bag before heading off to class.

* * *

Friday night rolled around and, to Rhys’ disappointment, Vaughn was working late at his internship and wouldn’t be around for pizza or video games, so when Rhys came home and dropped off his stuff he looked around his apartment with a sigh, unsure of what to do to kill the time. He’d always liked giving himself Friday off to decompress so getting started on homework was out of the picture. He rubbed his chin, thinking, until his bag suddenly slipped off off the couch, some of its contents spilling out over the carpet.

As Rhys bent down to pick them up, he saw the flyer sitting glossy and pristine despite the past few days jostled about inside of his bag. He picked it up, slowly rising to his feet. His mind flashed to his wardrobe, to the fine silk shirt and tight leather pants he hadn’t worn out since before grad school, that he still slipped on periodically and walked about his bedroom in just to make sure they still fit. He thought about the cologne he’d gotten at Christmas but hadn’t had a chance to wear yet considering he spent most of his time studying or hanging around the house.

He rubbed his chin. The ad teased him. _Free cover charge_. _One night only._

Finally, he relented, dropping the flyer onto the coffee table as he walked off to the bedroom to change.

* * *

Six o’clock and the line to get into the Hyperion already stretched a couple of store-fronts down the sidewalk. Rhys whistled at the wait, hands in his pockets as he peered down towards the entrance, where a bulky bouncer checked everyone’s IDs before unhooking the black velvet rope and letting guests in, group by group, or person by person. If Rhys hadn’t already put on his best clothes, or if he had something else to do, he might’ve decided to cut his losses, but as it was he just passed the time on his phone until he finally got to the front of the line.

Even though Rhys was far above the age restrictions, the bouncer who took his idea made him feel nervous. He was a huge, hulking guy, towering at least a foot or so above Rhys and practically bulging out of the tight suit he’d been squeezed into. No effort had even been made to button the jacket around the front, exposing tight pectorals against the thin fabric of the collared shirt. 

With his bulk and scarred face he looked more a frightening mob enforcer than a bouncer at a trendy club. He scanned Rhys’ ID with one dark eye, but the other glazed white and bright, blueish-white, with no pupil Rhys could make out, though he didn’t look long. He fidgeted with the cuffs of his shirt, looking anywhere but the man’s face. 

After an agonizing couple of moments, the bouncer finally grunted in affirmation and handed Rhys’ ID back to him, before unhooking the rope and letting Rhys pass. He quickly scurried through, chancing a look back over his shoulder. The bouncer’s head tilted slightly back towards him, the lights of the passing cars and planted streetlamp glinting off the glassy, blind eye like it was part of a machine.

Rhys shivered, turning back around and pushing open the club’s gilded gold and black doors.

The music that had previously been muffled blasted over him as the door swung shut behind him, sealing him into the club’s interior and surrounding him with thumping music and dancing colors. Rhys glanced about—through the guests milling about, laughing and joking—trying to get his bearings.

The style of the outer facade carried on into the decor of the club, splashing the walls and tables and chairs with art deco sensibilities—sharp patterns of gold and black flanking and lacing with one another, elegance belying the fairly casual, modern clothing of the guests. The same stylized bee from the flyer fluttered everywhere, from the breast pockets of the waiters bringing appetizers for the standing tables to the front rug just underneath Rhys’ feet.

Still, decor aside, it wasn’t much unlike clubs Rhys had visited in the past, not like he made a habit of going to very many. Usually he just tagged along with Vaughn or August whenever one of them decided to go, and usually ended up sitting at the bar for most of the night, tossing back the occasional drink as he watched the bolder guests bump and grind their way through the colorfully lit crowd. It was a decent enough time, but not usually his speed.

But the nondescript layout of the club didn’t do much to dispel the feeling creeping up Rhys’ neck as he slid along the walls, trying his best to avoid bumping into people. The air felt a little different than it usually did in these sort of places. He could sense the breathed humidity of the people, their sweat and their laughter, but it suddenly felt strange and distant, like his entire body—ears and nose and all—was wrapped up in fur.

He shook his head, frowning, trying to clear it, but it wouldn’t go away. At best, he could squint against it, working to keep focus and balance as he headed towards the bar. Not the alcohol would be the best thing to fix his sudden fuzziness, but he wasn’t much of a dancer and didn’t feel bold enough to try hooking up, so he figured he should at least sample the menu.

The bar menu was pretty cool, printed on fairly thick, ivory card-stock. The metallic lettering glinted in the dancing lights as Rhys tilted the menu bar and forth, admiring it for a second before he bothered to actually read it.

Most of the drinks included either alcohol he’d never heard of or had bad experiences with in the past. Vaughn could attest to the fact that Rhys and gin didn’t mix properly, _especially_ when dealing with the aftermath of a bad breakup.

But there were a couple of options that appealed to him. They seemed to have a couple of decent beers on tap, and some tasty wine options, but the cocktails had always been his downfall. He leaned his chin onto his hand as he mulled over his options.

The “Alpha Skag” sounded like a twist on a traditional Bloody Mary, but Rhys had never been particularly fond of the combo of vodka and tomato juice. One called “The Clap” made with coconut and mango blended together sounded tasty but the name itself so off-putting Rhys couldn’t bring himself to order it. And the “Legendary Martini” sounded amazing but with a price tag of twenty-five dollars, Rhys gave it a hard pass. He still needed to afford groceries this week, after all.

Finally, he decided on a drink that reasonably encompassed his needs in both price and taste. Asset Forfeiture— _Reyka vodka, St. Germaine, ginger beer, lime juice, charred applewood sugar_. It sounded sweet enough for Rhys to enjoy, alcoholic enough to get him tipsy, and unusual enough to make him feel adventurous. He was already trying new things by even setting foot in the club, after all.

The drink came quickly, thanks to the dearth of people at the bar. Rhys hoped that wasn’t because the drinks, despite their flashy names and fancy ingredients, were bad or poorly prepared, a worry that dashed the moment the bartender returned and slid the drink over into Rhys’ hand.

It looked as elegant as the rest of the decor in the club, the fizzy gold liquid served in a glass finely veined with copper and rimmed with dark sugar. A piece of crystalized fruit decorated the top of the drink— _ginger_ , Rhys identified after a quick nibble, before moving onto the cocktail proper.

It hit the spot as it trickled down his throat, bubbles tingling all the way into his stomach. He smacked his lips, refreshed, his mouth abuzz with flavor. Damn. This was _good_.

He kept sipping, his stomach growing pleasantly warm and numb as he easily drained half of the drink before deciding to better pace himself. He knew he could be a bit of a lightweight—well, at least that’s what Vaughn had told him whenever he’d decided to cut loose in the past. Rhys didn’t have much memory of said incidents.

Rhys hummed happily to himself, alcohol chipping away at his nerves regarding the club’s strange atmosphere. He was finally starting to feel the proper relaxation customary to a night out, the music and the shouts of the dancers drowning out the footsteps walking up behind him.

Rhys smelled the man before he even touched him, before he whirled around in his barstool at the sudden hand on his shoulder snapping him out of his fugue. The crisp scent stood out against the humid stink drifting in from the frenetic dance floor, the sweat and hot breath of its guests fenced in by the club’s walls. Rhys’ nostrils flared as the man’s scent wafted in, like no cologne he’d ever smelled before. Deep and earthy, touched with aromatic wood. It sent shivers down his spine, as if he’d just walked into a sudden rainstorm.

The sight of the man came secondary, his eyes struggling against contrasting dark of the club and strobing dance floor lights to catch up with his nose. Unlike many of the other guests, this man dressed like he was at a black-tie gala rather than a trendy club, his form sleek and cut in a two-piece suit complete with cufflinks and a tie bar that both shined with gold.

But his out of place fashion wasn’t the only thing that struck Rhys strangely. A bright, bizarrely _blue_ scar cut in a V-shape over his face, distracting from his handsome features and casually combed hair, but not _detracting_. Rhys didn’t want to stare, but genuinely couldn’t help it—the scar was striking, and seemed to even _glow_ in the dim atmosphere of the bar, though that must have been some trick of the light, or perhaps some kind of body paint.

“Um…” Rhys started, willing his voice back to him. “Can I…help you?”

“I dunno, kiddo, maybe.” The other man laughed, clapping Rhys again on the shoulder, as if they were old friends. “Not too many guys can catch my eye from all the way across the room.”

Rhys raised his eyebrow, prickling slightly underneath the suddenly touching. He’d sat at the bar to purposefully get _away_ from the rest of the people in the club, and yet here this guy was, encroaching in on his personal space without a thought to Rhys’ comfort.

If the guy looked like the weirdo Rhys had to deal with on the subway or at some of the other clubs he’d been to, he might tell him to fuck off, but the man didn’t look creepy enough to put up any red flags.

Finger skirted down his arm like stones skipping over the water, barely touching yet sending a shiver up Rhys’ spine he didn’t quite understand. This guy was attractive, sure, but not really Rhys’ type—and yet the feeling that tickled in his stomach had him shifting and squirming with butterflies.

He quickly chalked it up to the alcohol and the still strange, pervading atmosphere of the club. A brief thought told him he should pinpoint the exit in case he needed to make a quick get away, but as his eyes drifted the man again flitted into his line of vision, obscuring it completely with his body.

“Jack.” He pointed to himself, before flicking his finger at Rhys. “And you?”

Common sense dictated maybe not telling the stranger in the club your name, but common sense currently sat beyond the grasp of his tipsy brain.

“I’m uh…Rhys.”

“Rhys, huh? Haven’t seen you around here before. Someone as cute as you, I must’ve noticed.”

The unexpected compliment had Rhys’ heart leaping. He’d always been pretty susceptible to praise, no matter how slight. He simpered pleasantly in response, scooting aside as the man leaned against the bar besides him, elbow braced against the countertop. The bartender slid a heavy glass full of nondescript amber liquid into Jack’s hand, the man opening his fingers to catch it blindly.

“I…yeah. I just saw it was open the other day…guess I wanted to see what was going on inside.”

Jack’s lips curled.

“A good time, is what.”

“Y-Yeah, I’m feeling pretty good right now.” Jack mirrored Rhys as he lifted his glass to his lips, stopping as soon as he noticed the mimicry. He laughed awkwardly holding his drink an inch shy of his mouth as Jack took a long sip, watching over the scintillating rim of his glass.

Rhys had only gotten halfway through his drink by the time Jack finished his, the ice at the bottom jangling as he set it back against the bar and pushed it away from him. He slid slightly off of his stool, feet resting against the floor even as he leaned back casually against the seat.

“Looks like you’re getting a good buzz going there, kiddo. What’s say you and me try to tear it up? Shall we dance?”

He held his hand out to Rhys, enticingly waving his fingers and for a moment, Rhys considered it. He wasn’t much of a dancer, much less the graceful kind that Jack’s suave clothes probably called for. He could flail about to the club music as good as any drunken twenty-something, but he didn’t exactly feel comfortably wiggling and grinding up against a guy he’d only just met.

“Um…no thank you,” he declined as politely as he could manage. “I think I’m pretty good right here. Might just order myself another one of these, you know?” He raised his glass.

Jack looked at him, eyes suddenly darker and flatter than Rhys recalled, and for a moment he worried whether Jack would take no for an answer but then he grinned and tucked his hand back into his pocket.

“Suit yourself, pumpkin. But if you change your mind, I’ll be around.” He winked, stepping backwards towards the dance floor, about to turn when he stopped, facing Rhys again. “I’d like to see you around a lot more. Next time you come in, ask for Jack. I’ll have them waive your cover fee again, ‘kay?”

Rhys nodded. “Uh, sure. Thank you.” He tipped his glass towards Jack, a vague toast of gratitude. He saw the man’s lips move, voice suddenly audible as if whispered right in his ear though Jack was already a good couple feet away.

“Have a good night, Rhys.”

“You….you too.” He quickly turned back around, spine still shivering from the whisper.

“Man….weird scar, right?” Rhys leaned his elbows onto the counter as he nodded towards the bartender who stopped wiping off a wineglassto raise his eyebrow.

“Scar? What scar?”

“You know, the guy with the sc—“ Rhys raised his finger to point after the man, only to find he’d disappeared back into the crowd. He faltered, hand falling.

“I….never mind.” Rhys turned back around atop his barstool, nudging his empty drink across the counter. “Get me another one of those, will you?” They were pretty tasty and after that bizarre encounter, he felt he needed at least one more drink under his belt.

One more drink quickly turned into two, and by the time he’d finished that one it was almost eight o’clock, much to his shock. Though he’d spent almost his entire time here browsing his phone in between sips of alcohol, he’d barely noticed he’d stayed so long. He shook his head, frowning as he drained the last gulp of alcohol from the glass and pulled out his card to pay the tab. However, just as he opened his mouth, the bartender clamped his hand over the top of the glass and waved his payment off.

“Drinks are on the house tonight for you,” was the only response Rhys got before the bartender moved off to serve the remaining guests at the counter, leaving him confused and faltering. After a moment he shrugged, tucking his card back into his wallet before stumbling to his feet.

Rhys tried to catch a glimpse of the man from before as he inched his way to the exit, wanting to thank him for the drinks, but every face he thought he might recognize quickly melded into a stranger’s. With once last glance through the club, he gave in, pushing through the door and back into the refreshing air of the outside world.

* * *

Rhys wondered if maybe he was going crazy.

He’d joked many times that the grad school work load was enough to drive anyone mad, but it’d just been that—a joke. He didn’t want to become one of those people who went their whole life believing they saw things that weren’t there. Who grew jumpy, overly paranoid thanks to sights and sounds invented by their own minds and shaped by their own fears. He had way too many plans and prospects to be distracted by superstitions andnonsense.

And yet, he couldn’t ignore the latent feeling that everywhere he went he was being followed.

He’d first noticed the creeping feeling the Monday after he’d gone to the club, as he was riding the metro to class. Getting packed into tight, rush-hour foot traffic never made for a pleasant experience, but unless someone strange tried talking to him, he could usually put up with it. But as the train had finally pulled into the university’s station and let him off, he’d been hit with a sudden, sharp feeling of eyes on the back of his neck.

He’d turned around just as the metro doors slid shut, the faces of the people in the cars clear for a split second before blurring off down into the depths of the tunnel.

The feeling failed to abate entirely for the rest of the day, not even when he’d sat quiet in his class, trying to focus on his professor’s lecture. He couldn’t help glancing around the room periodically, as if he could possibly catch the classmates he’d seen hundreds of times morphing into somebody new. He struggled to pay attention to the slides flashing on the overhead projector, and when he emerged from the class into the bright sun he felt fuzzy and off-kilter and saw eyes and mouths in the jeweled leaves of the trees above him.

Even when he was trying to relax at home, doing nothing more than watching television, he sat on edge. Whenever his eyes unfocused, dazedly watching the screen, some sudden unnatural movement amongst the extras, or a flash of a face in between scene changes pulled him out of it, so suddenly he wasn’t sure whether he’d imagined it or not.

The unsettling feeling, the unwanted images, they followed him through the days and into the nights, dogging him with a slowly dawning, uncomfortable realization.

Rhys didn’t want to think about it. But the faces he thought he was seeing?

They were all from the same man.


	2. Chapter 2

Rhys wanted to stay far away from the club.

This entire mess had started there in the first place, after all. That’s where he’d first seen Jack and now the man’s image haunted him, followed him wherever he went.

Honestly, he’d wondered if maybe the proprietors were messing with their guests, maybe piping in some illegal substance through the vents to fuck with people’s brains like some kind of insidious subliminal advertising. He remembered distinctly the dizzy haze he’d suffered from almost immediately after entering the club for the first time. He’d never heard of anything like that happening on the news, but at this point he wasn’t sure what to believe and what not.

Rhys didn’t want to play into whatever was going on, whether it was some kind of sick game of the club owner or his own paranoia. So he tried to stay away, to occupy his thoughts with video games and food and studying and his friends.

And yet a sick curiosity pulled at him as he thought about it. The place where he’d first seen the man with the scar, the very same man he’d been seeing and sensing almost everywhere he went. The same man who haunted his dreams, who woke him up with the feeling of so much pressure weighed down on his heart it was like someone had been kneeling right on his chest.

 _Jack_.

* * *

Even though the opening weekend had long passed, the bouncer still let Rhys into the club without making him pay the cover fee.

Rhys didn’t question it. He had more pressing questions to attend to, anyway, if he could find Jack.

Fortunately, Jack found him first. He’d barely been in the club for a couple minutes when that familiar smile and scar came sweeping out of the dancing crowds. Jack flowed towards him like quiet ink, voice a delighted whisper.

“Rhys Rhys Rhys, it’s good to have you back!” Jack cheered as he instantly melded to Rhys’ side, hand on the young man’s shoulder as he guided him further into the belly of the club, around the dance floor before he had a chance to speak his mind.

They moved past the huge mural painted with the club’s logo, the gold wings of the hornet glistening in the light, pointing them in the direction of the sheltered booths near the back of the club. They were devoid of any other people, as if surrounded by an invisible shroud.

Jack eased Rhys down into one of the booths before sliding in next to him. Here, in this sequestered pocket of the club, Rhys could smell Jack’s scent— _cologne_?—more intensely than before, like they’d been bottled up together. Rhys’ world shrunk down to Jack as the man turned sideways toward him, elbow resting agains the table. A fluted candle holder in the middle flickered, light dancing from within the carved out symbol of the hornet.

“I’m very happy you’re here, Rhysie. I almost thought maybe I’d scared you away that first, time, eh? People tell me I tend to lay it on a little thick.”

“Oh. No…I’m just…I’m pretty busy, you know?”

“Of course, pumpkin. I understand. We all have less time for fun then we might like, huh?” Jack chuckled, his arm sliding casually atop the booth, loosely encircling above Rhys’ shoulders. The older man scooted closer until their hips practically touched, and much as Rhys’ might want to he couldn’t shift away without running his Jack’s fingers. He occupied himself by playing with the napkin, idly folding the hornet design as Jack watched him.

“Are you hungry, Rhysie? Thirsty? You can have anything you might like in the club. Anything.”

“Uh. I don’t know. I guess.”

“A little food and drink will really do your soul some good,” Jack stated firmly, his other hand coming to plant on Rhys’ thigh. He squirmed, breath held back behind his teeth at the warm pressure of Jack’s palm. 

“Have you been thinking about me?” The man asked, fingers of his other hand circling against the slickly lacquered table. Though they were in the booth, away from the main action of the dance floor, Rhys had never felt more exposed as Jack’s eyes pierced at him from within the glowing scar.

“I…I don’t know.” Was all he could respond. Jack clucked his tongue.

“You don’t know? They’re your thoughts, Rhys. Your brain. I think you would know if you were thinking about me.”

“I…I guess I have been, then.”

“Good boy.” Jack patted his thigh with a smile. “It makes me happy that you find me memorable, kiddo.”

Rhys jumped at the sudden clunk of dish-ware against the table, his eyes quickly flying up to a basket full of loaded fries and two glasses of the same drink he’d had the last time he’d come to the club. Jack coyly slid one other in front of Rhys, tapping the base.

“I remembered that you liked this one from last time. I tried it the other night. I like it too. I usually go for straight whiskey on the rocks, but you’re starting to convert me..”

“Uh-huh.” Rhys mumbled as he toyed with the stem of the glass, looking sidelong at Jack as the older man lifted his own drink up to his lips, watching Rhys over the rim as he sipped with a pleased smile.

“Please, _eat_ , the steak fries are the best thing on the food menu.” Jack plucked a fry from the steaming wire basket, popping it into his mouth with a moan. Rhys stomach gurgled, the alcohol already warm in his stomach though he barely remembered taking a sip. When he hesitated, Jack pinched a couple of fries and held them out to Rhys’ lips.

“Go on, pumpkin.”

Rhys stilled for only a moment longer before the enticing smell of salt and oil got to him, and he quickly plucked the fries from Jack’s fingers, drowning his embarrassment at the gesture in the surface of his drink.

Jack chuckled. “Good boy.” It made Rhys shiver.

Even the buzz steadily building from the alcohol couldn’t tame the nerves clustering in his belly as Jack watched him, never removing his eyes from Rhys even as the club moved around them. A waitress accidentally ran into a guest and spilled drinks down her front, and Jack barely batted an eye. He returned to rubbing Rhys’ thigh, taking the occasional sips from his own drink, until Rhys finally spoke up.

“What….what do you actually want from me?”

“What’s wrong with two handsome men just enjoying each other’s company?”

“Nothing. But you don’t…you don’t just want that. You keep touching me. You keep….you obviously _wanted_ me to come back here.”

“Well sure I did, pumpkin. From the first moment I laid eyes on you I wanted you.”

“So…so you want _me_ , right? You want to…you’re _attracted_ to me.”

Rhys had never been good at confronting romantic feelings, whether his own or those of others directed at him. He liked spending time on his appearance, buying trendy clothes and doing his hair every morning, but oddly whenever someone responded to it he tended to freeze inside, as if he’d been caught putting on some kind of act. So when Jack leaned in closer and breathed out like he was exhaling an invisible cigar, Rhys didn’t know what to do.

“I suppose you could say that. I am _interested_ in you.”

The arm around the back of Rhys’ seat shifted, and Jack’s fingers slipped through the hair just above the young man’s ear. Rhys licked his lips nervously, the touch sending little twitches down his neck. He could feel Jack’s breath on his cheek.

“I want to kiss you, Rhys.”

When Rhys didn’t respond, brain too caught up in the implications and red flags, Jack just pressed forward anyway, his hand lifting from Rhys’ thigh and joining with the other to grasp both sides of the young man’s head and jerk it in for a firm, unrelenting kiss.

Rhys soon felt like he was suffocating underneath the man’s lips. Jack stole every breath of air from his mouth, his hand gripped into Rhys’ hair so he couldn’t escape, couldn’t pull away as Jack sucked every little gasp and moan from his lungs and left them burning and tight. Rhys pawed weakly at Jack’s chest, fingers curling into the wispy satin of his tie, wanting badly to either pull and choke Jack or draw him in closer, but his mind was too fogged up with the man’s scent and the pressure of his toothy lips to decide. Jack’s earthy, woodsy smelled fell over him like a handful of choking dust, trying to bury him deep down, someplace he couldn’t possibly escape.

His struggling grew as the air started to genuinely burn in his lungs, his chest tightening as Jack refused to show him any quarter. His hand beat frantically against the man, head pulling back in an increasingly desperate attempt to get away. Finally, he managed to palm Jack right in the throat, forcing the older man to break the kiss and giving Rhys a moment to escape.

“S-Sorry I…I need….I need to go!” Rhys scooted all the way around to the other side of the booth, not daring to look behind him as he stumbled through the dim crowds, just barely avoiding running into employees and patrons alike as he followed the fuzzy green glow of the exit sign.

He finally pushed out into the alleyway, breathing heavily of the cool urban air that smelled of trash and ozone. Rhys wheezed, trying to push the weight of Jack and the club and the atmosphere from his lungs. He pounded his fists against the rough brick of the alley wall, his head hanging low as he tried to calm his breathing, dispel the dizziness whirling around inside of his mind.

He heard a soft crunch and jumped, terrified Jack had followed him, but when he whipped around and pressed his back flat against the cold wall he saw it was little more than a stray cat hopping through the litter in the alleyway, fixing Rhys with a momentary, flashing yellow glance before scurrying off further into the dark **.**

Rhys clutched his hand over his chest, trying to force himself to calm down. He looked both ways, dizzy and unsure of where the club’s exit had gone, before dragging himself in the direction of the main street, back towards faceless crowds and hopefully, eventually, home.

* * *

Days pass.

Rhys wants to sleep.

He takes the pills he’d grabbed from the pharmacy in his mad dash home earlier in the evening, when paranoia had gripped its claws into him so tightly that he felt stifled, surrounded by the people all around him. He tosses about in his bed, sweat breaking out on his forehead, trickling down his temples. He stares at the ceilings and sees faces and bodies like a psychiatrist’s blotchy pictures

He can’t take this anymore.

The pills don’t work. He knocks them onto the floor and they scatter like bits of broken ceramic. He pulls himself into a sitting position, hands scrubbing tearfully against his eyes as he moans in distress.

The memory of a kiss on his lips, of arms around him, weighs him down every second he’s awake. He trembles, alone, trying to figure out what to do.

He knows there’s only one thing he _can_ do, as much as he doesn’t want to. Though with his body and mind feeling out of his control at this point, _want_ almost feels laughable.

Rhys leaves a note for Vaughn, forgetting the last time he’d even bothered to hand write anything. He puts it on the counter and takes one, long look at his apartment, before closing the door and heading back out into the cold.

* * *

It was late, long after the club was supposed to be closed, far later than any sane person should be out in the city. Rhys walked down the streets alone, a jacket and shoes thrown on over his pajamas. The usually vibrant and glowing storefronts were all dark and quiet, all their guests and employees at home tucked into their bed, waiting for dawn.

He stood outside of the Hyperion, breathing in clouds of warmth as he stared at the dark golden doors.

The club was closed, but Rhys knew Jack was inside.

He pressed on the door, expecting it to be locked but something inside clicked and let him through, the heavy doors parting around him effortlessly.

The club was occupied but quiet down to the bone. Rhys was surprised to see people inside despite the silence, but unlike the nights before they don’t move, held up in awkward positions like time had been stopped sometime earlier in the night, just when the flashing lights had frozen, soaking them all in a static yellow. Like this scene had been put on pause, waiting for his arrival.

In the middle of the frozen crowd stood Jack, hands expectantly clasped together. That bright blue scar shone like a beacon as he smiled.

The door swung shut behind Rhys.

“I thought you might be back,” Jack chuckled, his voice rippling through the darkness of the club and into Rhys’ core. “Not many can resist once I’ve got my claws in nice and deep.”

Rhys knew he’d walked right into a trap, and yet he stepped forward willingly, approaching Jack’s waiting arms and the still ranks of the crowd behind him, frozen in time, like a painting. He closed his eyes, and fell forward, letting Jack hold him.

“Please, Jack,” Rhys groaned, fingers clutching at the back of Jack’s jacket, desperate for something to cling onto, even the man who’d caused all this torment in the first place. Jack felt like the only powerful, constant presence in his life anymore, and he wanted to fall into his arms and let Jack wrap him up and care for him until he didn’t have to think.

He didn’t have to say any of it. He felt like Jack must understand.

Broad palms smoothed down his back, calming his nerves. Rhys rubbed his face against the man’s shoulder, letting out a tight sigh.

“Shh,” Jack replied softly against Rhys’ ear, curling like smoke. “I’ll take care of it.”

Rhys shuddered in the man’s arms, leaning his full weight against Jack’s body as the man pulled back, a smile drifting over his lips. Before Rhys can do anything to stop it—not that he’d want to—Jack pressed their mouths together, and this time Rhys welcomed it instead of shoving Jack away, settling into the comfort that Jack’s iron grip and unyielding lips now enveloped him in. He lost himself, mind fading into a steady haze. His spine curved back, club turning upside down as Jack suddenly dipped him like a dancer. His eyes fluttered open for a moment, against the sudden heaviness in his lids, and he could see the expressions of the club goers all around him now, frozen in place, watching.

All of them have the same, bright blue scar slashed over their grinning faces.


	3. Chapter 3

Every day, Tim counted his blessings he lived by the ocean.

He knew many people would kill to have a house within walking distance of the shore, to have the salt air kiss his skin and hair every time he stood outside his porch or backyard.

He was glad to have escaped the hustle of university life back in the city to the calm of the seaside town, though even here one couldn’t really escape the coming tide ofgentrification.

They’re already remodeling the little downtownarea that practically sat on the sand, which filled Tim with both excitement and trepidation. Memories of his childhood lived there in the old candy shop and the kitschy little boutiques, and he hoped those might remain untouched as the rest revamped with designer brands and trendy eateries.

Not that every addition sounded too bad or bougie.

After all, Tim had heard about a little ice cream place in the local paper that had just opened up. The article boasted about their award-winning blend of modern flavors with old-fashioned methods, hand-churning ice cream made of everything from butter pecan to broiled bacon. It sounded good, at least worth the trip, so one morning he decided to put on his sneakers and easily walked down the sloping hill from his house and into the heart of downtown, the smell of the salt air mingling with the concrete dust of construction that wafts from beyond the chainlink fence and wooden paneling fencing off the sites.

The ice cream shop sat within the part of the promenade that’d just finished construction, though most of the storefronts still lie empty, with large signs on their windows promoting the businesses that would hopefully soon fill the space. The bright white and red awning quickly caught Tim’s eye, leading him to the little wooden sign hanging from an ornate striped pole.

“Creamery Atlas.”

Curvy red letters spelled out the name of the shop around the image of a stylized little honeybee carrying an ice cream cone in one of its little forelegs. Curious, Tim opened the door.

The interior matched the storefront, red and white dominating everything from the counters to the menus to the tables and chairs, with the occasional pop of rosy wood to keep it all balanced and rustic. Tim glanced around, eyes falling on all the little details. The little cartoon bee from the outside was everywhere, patterned on the walls and on the smooth tiles of the floor.

“Good morning!” Piped a bubbly employee from behind the counter who, to Tim’s surprised, carries the same color scheme in the playful red and white streaks in her curly hair. He wondered briefly if that had to be a part of the employee training before her bright smile and pretty blue eyes finally drew him over to the huge refrigerated case.

The article he’d read about the new shop hadn’t been wrong. Some of the flavors were downright _bizarre_ —Tomato Avocado Swirl, Mango-Coconut Bread Pudding, Sweet Lemon and Olive Sorbet—and while most of the others at least sounded appetizing, one still probably couldn’t find them in the typical ice cream parlor.

Luckily, the girl behind the counter willingly helped him navigate the minefield of strange and less-strange flavors alike, letting him know her favorites as she tried to figure out which he might like best. Tim finally decided to compromise on a flavor that sounded tasty enough but wasn’t _boring_. He hadn’t come here just to make off with a plain vanilla cone, after all.

He thanked the register girl as she handed him a huge cone with a bubbly “thank you!” and he picked out a small table to enjoy his treat and the calm, jazzy music that piped in through the speakers. He relaxed into the atmosphere, feeling so calm and delighting in the taste of the ice cream that he didn’t notice the echo of footsteps until a voice sounded besides him.

“Ginger-Lime Cheesecake Twist, huh? You have great taste, that’s my favorite flavor too.”

Tim looked up from his ice cream to see a man standing besides his little table, his lips curled in a delighted smile. He’s dressed in an eggshell white that matched nicely with the deep pink shirt and bright red bowtie, aesthetic ripped out of an old-fashioned candy counter and gussied up with modern flair. He blended in well with the decor of the rest of the shop.

Tim faltered a little, suddenly conscious of his ratty flip flops and casual shorts, because the man was _very_ attractive. He held himself with pristine posture, hands folded neatly over his stomach as he stood by Tim’s little table. Chestnut brown hair blossomed off his forehead and up over the back of his headto bounce in a careful little curl just above the nape of the neck. One brown eye rested warmly on Tim’s face, the other contrasting sharply in a crystal blue that Tim felt he might be able to see his reflection in if he got a little closer.

Of course, he wasn’t a total dick, so he just stayed in his seat and smiled back.

“Oh, yeah it’s uh…it’s really really good. I wasn’t sure what to expect from this place but it’s….awesome…” he tilted the waffle cone up to the man as if he was giving a toast.

“It sure is. We really want to make sure all our customers leave here with a smile on their face and a great story to tell to all their friends. Name is Rhys, by the way.” The man tapped the little bronze name-tag above his breast pocket. “Sure you’ve already guessed, but I’m the owner here.”

Tim had figured the guy who randomly came up to talk to him about the product was probably the owner, or something, otherwise it’d have been pretty creepy. As it was, he felt pretty relaxed at Rhys’ presence. He’d only been here for a couple minutes and he was quickly growing fond of this place.

“It’s nice to meet you.” Tim still felt self-conscious about his outfit with Rhys’ crisp clothing, but the other man didn’t seem to mind. “I live just up the hill from here, actually, and I heard about this from a local article and well….just wanted to check it out.”

“Oh, you’re from around here too? That’s great!” Rhys raised his finger, looking over a shoulder. “If you just give me a second—“

Rhys flitted over to the counter, reaching over the register and returning with a small card that he quickly handed to Tim.

“As one of our very first customers, please, take this as a sign of our appreciation. It’s good for a free ice cream cone on your next visit, plus another after your next six purchases.” Tim took the punchcard from Rhys’ slim fingers, pleasantly surprised at the offer.

“Wow, that’s….that’s really kind of you.” The card was a nice, firm card-stock, higher quality than many of the other punchcards Tim’s had over the years. The red ink gleamed crisp and metallic against the white, matching Rhys’ ensemble and the shop’s decor seamlessly.   
 ****

“Of course. We want to do our best to keep the local community in mind, after all.” Rhys’ smile could win awards just like his ice cream had. Tim scratched the back of his head, feeling his cheeks heat up. Rhys wasn’t even really his type, he tended to go for men bigger and beefier than he was, but the manager had some kind of aura about him that was drawing him in.

“I trust you’ll be back? There’s so many flavors left for you still to try.” Rhys smiled brightly as Tim rose to his feet, holding out his hand. Tim tucked the card into his back pocket before taking the manager’s hand and giving it an slight shake.

“Oh yeah, um, I think I definitely will be. I’d love to taste some more of them.”

“Great!” Rhys squeezed Tim’s hand one last time, his smile still beaming. “I’ll look forward to having you around a lot more, Mister?”

“Tim.”

“ _Tim_.” Rhys’ eyes crinkled with his smile. “It was _very_ nice to meet you.”

The touch of Rhys’ soft palm against his own hand left Tim’s skin tingling with pleasant warmth that trickled all the way to his core. He watched the manager disappear back into the back room, the little red door clipping softly behind him.

Tim soon finished his ice cream, thanking the girl at the counter and dropping the spare change in his pocket into the tip jar. He almost wanted to stay, maybe talk to the staff more or try a couple more flavors, but he still had some errands to run and couldn’t spend the entire day hanging around in an ice cream parlor, no matter how homey it felt.

Tim looked down at the card in his hand as he walked outside, admiring the way the ink glimmered in the sunlight. He looked back over his shoulder at the shop, smiling as he noticed Rhys standing besides the counter, cheerfully chatting with the register girl. He noticed Tim staring, and waved, his blue eye brightly visible even through the reflective glass window. Tim smiled, and tucked the card into his wallet, feeling warm even with the breezy sea air. He’d definitely be coming back soon.

After all, who was gonna say no to free ice cream?


End file.
